


The Prague August Affair

by Elijahwildchild



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elijahwildchild/pseuds/Elijahwildchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is betaed, as always, by the ever-wonderful <b>dinahmt</b>. Napoleon and Illya are charged with getting a British agent, and the vital information he carries, safely out of Prague under the noses of the Communist regime. At kronette's request, things don't go according to plan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prague August Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kronette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/gifts).



I’m warm, sticky and sated, revelling in the lassitude, and feeling well-fucked. My breathing’s returning to normal, when the mattress dips. I open my eyes and grin as he kneels beside me, washcloth in hand, fine sheen of sweat catching the light. Beautiful, my partner. More heavily muscled now than when he first allowed me into his bed. A solid bedrock. 

He shakes his head and tuts. “Napoleon, you look thoroughly…”

“Fucked?” I rest a hand on his knee and smirk at him. “Am. Was.” I move to take the cloth from him. He resists and raises an eyebrow at me.

“I was going to say ‘debauched’.”

“Remind me again what century we’re in…” I reach for the cloth again but he bats my hand away and cleans the drying semen from my belly.

“Turn over,” he says.

“You planning on ‘debauching’ me again?”

“Of course, but not right now. I just want to check you’re… undamaged.”

And there it is. The guilty flinch in his eyes. Fleeting, these days, but it still surfaces occasionally. I sigh, and pull him down for a kiss. Which lasts a while. When we break, I stroke his face. “I’m fine,” I say. “ _I_ know you’ll never hurt me. ‘Bout time _you_ did, too.”

The guilt’s gone, but he still looks uncomfortable. “Nevertheless,” he says. “Humour me?”

“Don’t I always?” I sigh and roll over to endure his ministrations. Truth be told, I am a little sore, but nothing untoward. It’s been a while since we had sex this way and I’m a little out of practice. The stretch-memory of Illya’s cock inside me reminds me how much I enjoy it. Crave it.

“You’ll do,” he says, giving my ass a gentle pat, and tossing the washcloth aside. I roll over once more and reach for him. And we both jump at the two-tone interruption of a communicator. Mine.

 

I unearth it from the pocket of my suit coat, with a rueful look at my partner who’s lying on the bed, already half-hard again. He shrugs and sits up as I perch on the edge of the bed and open a channel.

“Solo here.”

“Ah, Mr Solo?” It’s Waverly’s voice. He sounds tired. Checking the time on the bedside clock I do a quick calculation and realise it’s well after midnight in New York.

“Sir.”

“Whereabouts are you?”

“ _In bed,_ ” Illya mouths at me and then lays his chin on my shoulder. I give him a gentle shove.

“Ah, we’re still in Vienna, Sir. Booked on a flight to New York this afternoon.”

Waverly harrumphs. “Cancel that, please. I need you and Mr Kuryakin in Prague by this evening, covertly I’m afraid. We need the immediate extraction of a Czech agent, Blazej Fojtik. He’s a minor Party administrator, run by the British.”

I’m clearly missing something here. “Why’s he so important? And why can’t they extract him?”

Waverly sighs. “Our London office has just informed me that MI6 believe there’s a Soviet mole in their organisation. All hell’s broken loose there, of course, networks compromised, lines of communication shattered. They’re paralysed.”

Illya’s moving my hand with the communicator towards his mouth. He looks grim as he speaks; the look triggered by all things Soviet. “What’s Fojtik’s role in all this, Sir?”

“Immense, Mr Kuryakin. Absolutely pivotal,” says Waverly. “We believe he knows the identity of the mole. Get him out alive, gentlemen…” Waverly pauses. “If you can. Whatever happens, it’s imperative we have that information.”

Illya frowns at me and continues. “Sir, can’t Mr Beldon…”

“I’m sorry, Mr Kuryakin.” It’s sharp, almost a rebuke. “We can’t involve Mr Beldon.” He pauses, then continues, his tone less harsh. “I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one, gentlemen. Please keep me informed. Waverly out.”

I close the communicator and toss it onto the chair. Illya’s scowling into the distance. He’ll be at it for a while so I head for the shower.

 

When I return, he’s lying on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, one arm behind his head, one knee flung out to the side. I want him all over again. Instead I dress, then rummage in my case to find our map. He hasn’t moved and he’s still silent so I take the map and sit next to him on the bed, resting my hand on his knee.

“You okay, partner mine?”

He sighs and looks at me with hard eyes. 

I give his knee a squeeze. “Harry and the Russians, in one mission. Enough to make anyone morose.”

“The Berlin office is the obvious choice to deal with this extraction, so why not involve Beldon from the outset?” 

“Exactly.”

“Waverly doesn’t trust him.”

“That’s at least three of us, then. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Illya lapses into silence again and I open the map. 

“Now, where are we…” 

He sits up immediately and takes it from me, as I knew he would, at the prospect of my merely-average map-reading skills being the basis of our mission planning. 

 

By eighteen-hundred hours I’m backing our rented Skoda into a corner of the Party headquarters’ car park, negotiating the flow of vehicles leaving for the day. Illya slips the map into the glove compartment and removes two spare clips for our Specials, handing one to me. The silence after the engine clatter is punctuated by outside sounds of traffic, gradually building with the workday exodus.

Illya points up to the stark, concrete and glass building, to the second floor where the administrators’ offices are. The only floor, apart from the entrance, where the lights are still on. He stows his clip in an inside pocket and takes out his sunglasses.

“Time for cousin Imrich to call on dear Blazej to take him for a slivovice,” he says, as he opens the car door. Reflexively I go to open mine but he stays me with a hand on my arm. I understand. I don’t speak Czech, but the idea of him walking into Communist Party Headquarters alone, for all Dubcek’s liberalisation, is not comfortable. The papers from our last mission will not bear close scrutiny. “I need you here in case we need to make a hasty exit.” He gives my arm a squeeze. “If all else fails, I’ll play the KGB card.”

I cover his hand briefly with mine and nod. This month’s Soviet sabre-rattling may actually give us a leg-up. He exits the car and I watch him until he disappears into the maw of the headquarters of the Party. I mark the time and try to settle to wait, as the outgoing tide of vehicles from the car park slows to a trickle. Clearly, only the higher level party officials have access to their own vehicles, the minions relying on the vast public transport system. The trams run every ten minutes, more frequently at rush hour.

 

The car park’s almost empty now, just me, a few more Skodas, Trabants… and a black Tatra with tinted rear windows. Its engine’s running. I sit up a bit straighter. Waiting for a lingering, Senior Party Official…? I make a decision and start the Skoda’s engine. With Lady Luck’s help, they’ll think I’ve just arrived. I drive up to the building’s entrance and then find a spot to park between it and the Tatra. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the driver look hard at me and then turn to speak to someone in the back. After a moment, he returns his gaze to the front of the building and I take my hand off my shoulder holster. 

We wait.

I become aware that it’s very still. There’s no traffic around the building, not even trams. I check all around me and notice that the driver of the Tatra is doing the same. I wind down the window. Above the noise of our engines I hear the distant ‘pop’ of gunfire underpinned by a heavier rumble… 

It’s at that moment that Illya, leading Fojtik out of the building, spots me and heads for the car.

With a shocking squeal of tyres from behind, the Tatra’s power hurls it between me and Illya. A large-calibre report sounds from the rear of the car, and Fojtik goes down, minus his face. Illya drops to one knee and returns fire as the Tatra gathers speed towards the exit and I’m flooring the throttle, trying to get to him, as he turns to run towards me.

Two things happen. 

There’s a further crack from the speeding vehicle, different weapon, I register vaguely, and Illya arcs through the air in a half-spin. He lands face down, a yard from the Skoda. 

I stand on the brakes and the engine stalls as I leap out. A glance at Fojtik tells me there’s nothing to be done, and then I’m on my knees next to my partner. The back of his jacket’s wet and tacky and there’s a ragged hole in the upper left side. I hardly dare feel for a pulse. My hand, as I reach for his neck, is barely controllable in its adrenalin-fuelled tremor, but I manage to steady it long enough to detect a thready pulse. 

_Alive._

Grabbing Illya’s weapon, I tuck it into my belt and hoist him over my shoulder to the car, easing him face-down across the rear seat. As I climb back in, I pause. Still no traffic and the distant gunfire has become sporadic. The rumbling, however, is louder. I slam the door and try to start the engine. Whatever’s going on, we need to get out of here fast. At the third try, it fires and I move towards the car park exit, mentally reviewing the route back towards the Austrian border. I look down the length of the Vinorhadska and catch my breath. I’m trying to make sense of what I see. Not half a mile away is a slow-moving convoy of tanks - Russian built T-54’s. _Figure it out later, Solo._ I turn the wheel the opposite way and head for the back streets. As I move away from the main routes, the streets are oddly quiet, street cafes and bars empty, no kids playing. 

 

When I think I’m far enough from pursuit, I pull in under a tree on a quiet road and switch off the engine. It ticks hotly as I climb out and snatch open the rear door. Scoop and run had been the only option, but I have to know if I still have my partner in the back, or…

For all the blood on his jacket, there doesn’t seem to be much more now than when I bundled him in there. 

_Corpses don’t bleed._

I quell my rising panic and check again for a pulse. It’s there, steadier than before. Gently, I lift the jacket and blood-sodden shirt away from his back and peer underneath. There’s so much blood, I can’t see the wound. The jacket and shirt need to come off and that’s going to hurt. Easing him out of both, I feel desperately around the front for an exit wound. Nothing. I try not to think of the damage a projectile careering around inside a rib cage can do.

Illya groans then gasps as he tries to move.

“Shh, _lyubovnik._ Lie still.” He clutches at me, panting through the pain, eyes wild and staring. “I need to clean you up a bit so that I can see what’s going on.”

He nods once. I plant a brief kiss on his head then climb out to grab the medikit from the trunk. 

Cleaning the blood from his back to expose the wound joins my ever-lengthening list of recurrent nightmares. There’s less blood than I was expecting. I don’t know if this is a good or a bad sign. As I move closer to the upper left side of his back, he begins to pant again. His grip on my hip is punishing. Insignificant, I imagine, next to what he’s going through. He’s refused pain-relief, of course, insisting he’ll need all his faculties for our escape. I accept the wisdom, but I’d be happier if he were suffering less.

There. All cleaned, and I have to bite my lip hard now that I can see the wound itself. 

“What?” he says. He’s noticed that I’ve ground to a stop.

“Well, the good news is that the bleeding seems superficial, considering you’ve been shot in the back.”

“And the bad?”

I try not to imagine the agony of the exposed shards of bone. 

“I think your shoulder blade’s broken. Can you move your left…” 

He gives a yell of pain and a filthy Russian curse. He’s pale and clammy and it’s obvious, in his present state, that he needs proper medical care. Luck isn’t with him. He’s got me.

“Easy,” I say gripping his good shoulder. I reach into the medikit for a field dressing. And a loaded syringe. I pause, knowing what his reaction will be. “I need to give you a shot.”

His hand comes up. “No. I’m fine.” He’s trembling.

“Please, _lyubov._ You’re barely conscious, we have to make it to the Austrian border and that may or may not be by car on a designated route. I need you with me and functional.” I take his trembling hand in mine. “Are you telling me you could hold a weapon in this?”

He curses again and shakes his head. “Okay, but no happy juice,” he mutters.

I feel my shoulders sag in relief. With a nod, I uncap the syringe.

 

Shot given, wound dressed and we’re on the road to the nearest border crossing at Nova Bystrice, having filled up with gas and bought supplies. It’s around twenty-one hundred, twilight’s dropping, and there have been no signs of pursuit so far. Illya’s quiet in the back, which is a relief. I glance in the mirror. His eyes are closed and I dare to hope he might be sleeping. They open. No such luck.

“How’re you doing?” I ask.

“’m fine. Don’t fuss.” Standard response, but there’s strain behind the words. Christ, he’s just been shot in the back; of course there’s strain.

We drive a little further in silence as I think through strategies for the border crossing.

“We’re not being followed,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question, although he hasn’t looked behind.

“No.” I meet his eyes in the mirror. “How do…”

“You’re driving too carefully.”

Ah. 

“Why?”

“I’m trying not to jar you,” I say, swerving to avoid a pothole. 

“You might want to work on that,” he gasps. “I mean why aren’t we being followed?”

I frown at him in the mirror. “You’re complaining?”

“They’ve eliminated Fojtik, but they can’t know whether he shared his knowledge before he died.”

“Did he?” I look at him sharply but he shakes his head looking glum. I clutch at a straw. “Maybe they think they’ve eliminated you too.” The thought makes me shudder.

“You know better than that. They’re professionals. They’d want to make sure.”

I check the clear road behind us, half-expecting to see the spectre of a black car.

“It may have something to do with what was going on as we left.”

“What?”

The road forks just ahead and after a quick glance at the map I take the left, narrower and rougher route. There’s a hiss of pain from the back seat.

“Sorry, _tovarich,_ ” I say, wrestling with the wheel. “We’ve another five or ten minutes of this then we can stop. Think you can hold out?”

He nods, then grunts as the Skoda lurches over a stone. “I’m driving the next leg,” he mutters, voice tight with pain.

It takes slightly longer than the ten minutes I predicted before I see the outline of a rough shelter in the gathering dusk. It’s off the road to the left among the trees. The undergrowth around it appears undisturbed. Nevertheless I bounce the car in wide circle over the rough ground to come in behind it. Illya’s fallen silent in the back. A quick glance behind shows me he’s given in to the pain at last and passed out. He knows he’s safe for a while.

Leaving him where he is, I climb out and scope out the area around the shelter. My steps are the only sound. No bird life in the conifers. With my penlight, I check for trip wires and monitoring devices and finally open the front door. Single room, fireplace, wall cupboards, cot, two chairs. It feels like The Ritz. I cross to the cupboards and find oil lamps, blankets, a couple of pillows, tinned goods and a Primus stove.

I’m pondering what to do about water, when there’s a sound behind me. I spin and drop into a firing stance, but it’s only Illya. Of course. He’s silhouetted in the door frame and looking as though his legs are barely holding him up. My breath whooshes out and I make it to his side just as they give out.

“You really have a death wish today, don’t you, _tovarich_?” I grunt, as I lower him onto the cot.

“Just checking you didn’t have a secret tryst with a voluptuous hiker,” he pants.

I snort at him and cover him with one of the blankets, packing pillows around him to keep him on his side. Retrieving a lamp from the cupboard, I light it and hang it on a hook in the centre of the ceiling.

“Since you’ve thwarted my plans with the hiker, you’ll have to do, I guess.” I stroke his hair then retrieve his weapon from my waistband and hand it to him. “Think you can handle this now?”

He glares at me and nods. I know my partner. He hasn’t yet forgiven himself for his earlier weakness.

“We need to find water,” I say, and grab a pot from one of the cupboards. “I won’t be long. Shoot anything that comes through the door that isn’t me.”

“Especially if it’s a voluptuous hiker.”

I give his foot a pat as I leave.

Finding the stream by penlight is hardly the biggest challenge of today. Nevertheless, by the time I’m back at the shelter, I feel cold and shaky and ready to drop. The day’s adrenaline overload is long gone, but I’m not done yet.

As soon as I’ve closed the door, I check Illya. He’s trembling on the cot, his forehead beaded with sweat and warm to touch. Damn. I glance at the fireplace but daren’t light a fire.

“Time for another shot,” I say. “And I’m giving you an antibiotic too, this time.”

“C-cold…”

“I know,” I say, delving into the medikit. “Let me get this and then I’ll warm you up.”

“P-promises, p-p…”

I drop a kiss onto his head as I swab his arm for the shots. “Hush. Are you saying I’m not good for them?”

“Until the next blonde comes along.”

I pack the medikit away slowly to give myself time to sort out where Illya’s going with this. He’s fallen silent, now. I sit on the edge of the cot and stroke his hair, waiting for him to speak.

 

When we first fell into bed together it was a quick and dirty, adrenaline-fuelled affirmation that we’d survived yet another near miss. Mexico, as I remember. I had a sprained wrist and Illya a bruised kidney. We’d hit the hotel bar, then, after a bottle of tequila, staggered up the stairs, practically ripping off our clothes as soon as the room door was closed. Illya gave me a hand-job and I sucked him off.

It happened several times after that, with variations, and in between times we dated women. Enthusiastically. Well, I did. It wasn’t until later that I found out that Illya wasn’t quite as - eager. Don’t get me wrong. He was up for it, and he followed through. Just not as often as I did. And he’d find ways of dodging women that were perfectly plausible. 

 

He’s stopped shivering now, and his face is beginning to relax as the morphine takes hold. It won’t be long before he realises, but he needs to get some decent rest before we attempt to cross the border tomorrow. A crabby Russian’s a small price to pay for that.

He’s trying to focus glassy eyes on me, the right one drifting as it sometimes does when he’s exhausted or drunk. I’m not going to get much sense out of him now until morning.

“Wha…? You gave me… morph…?”

“Shh.” I continue to stroke his hair. “You need to rest. Tomorrow will be hard. You hungry?”

He shakes his head and I know that he’s almost under.

“Listen,” I say. “I’m going to tell you this now and again tomorrow morning, and then as often as I need to get it through your thick skull. _You _are the ‘next’ blond to come along. You are the _only_ blond. You have been for almost a year.” __

__He snuffles into sleep. I sigh and turn down the lamp before slipping under the blanket behind him._ _

__“There’s no one else, and I love you,” I whisper into his ear as I too drift off._ _

__

__He half-wakes a couple of times in the night, once slurring Russian invective, but the morphine has him, and dawn’s breaking before he stirs into full consciousness. Once I know he’s fully awake, I whisper into his ear._ _

__“I’m going to check outside. Don’t move.”_ _

__Outside, it’s as quiet as it was when we arrived. The dawn is grey and damp and I do a complete circuit of the shelter before taking a leak against a tree. A noise behind me has me spinning and dropping… Again, it’s my partner at the cabin door._ _

__“I thought I told you not to move.” I grimace down at my splashed pants and tuck myself away. “This was a good suit.” He’s grinning, despite his obvious pain, and I relax a notch._ _

__“Perish the thought that you might offend the eyes and noses of those fastidious border guards.” He steps towards me from the doorway. I meet him half way._ _

__“Need a hand?”_ _

__He shakes his head. “I can manage if you’ll watch my back.” He’s looking at me closely so it’s easy for him to pick up the hot wash of remorse. He grabs me behind the neck. “This is not your fault,” he says, punctuating every syllable with a shake. “Idiot. You think I’d have made it here without you, hmm?” He glares at me, then stalks off. “I need to pee,” he mutters over his shoulder._ _

__I watch as he struggles with his fly, pees and then zips up, knowing better than to offer any help. He walks back and grabs my arm as he passes. “Come on. I’ll let you make me breakfast.”_ _

__Business as usual, then._ _

__The sun’s broken through by the time we’re on the road. Apart from the odd farm cart, it’s deserted. We’re heading for the checkpoint at Nova Bystrice then onto the B5 at Grametten. I check the fuel: plenty to get us across the border and well into Austria. Illya, sitting awkwardly crab-wise with his back half-turned towards me, has the map on his knee and is monitoring our route. His eyes are pinched with pain but he’s alert and focused._ _

__“So,” I say. “Russian tanks in Prague?”_ _

__Illya’s eyes continue to sweep ahead and around. He sighs. “It was only a matter of time before they returned. They’ve been on the borders for weeks; Brezhnev’s ‘manoeuvres’. The Soviet’s paranoid Dubcek’s reforms will seduce others in the Eastern Bloc. The timing may work in our favour, though. If all eyes are on Prague, we might just slip away unnoticed.”_ _

__“Well, I hope we’re luckier than Fojtik.”_ _

__He rolls his eyes at me. “You think that was bad luck?”_ _

__I don’t. And then the thing that’s been tugging at me for attention since we left Prague jumps front and centre. The different sound as Illya was shot. It’s so vivid that the car swerves as my hands clutch the wheel involuntarily. Illya blurts a gasp of pain next to me and I pull over, hardly daring to let the thoughts spool out._ _

__“Napoleon? What’s wrong? Are you all right…?”_ _

__I lay a hand on his neck and just breathe for a moment as I let the jigsaw pieces fall into place. The second shot hadn’t been a high-velocity round. Not like the one that took off Fojtik’s face. It was the unmistakable bark of a modified P38._ _

__It takes me a moment to check the images again, look for loopholes, weak spots. I can’t find any. I can feel Illya watching me._ _

__“What were Waverly’s exact words when you asked about Beldon?” I say._ _

__“‘We can’t involve Mr Beldon. I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one,’” he quotes._ _

__“Why couldn’t we involve Harry?”_ _

__Illya shrugs. “You know how Waverly feels about him…”_ _

__“Oh, I think it’s more than that.” My partner has - history - with Harry Beldon, head of U.N.C.L.E. northeast in Berlin. Illya worked under him for two years when Beldon was head of U.N.C.L.E. London. He doesn’t talk about it much. In the silence I can almost hear him thinking._ _

__“What aren’t you telling me?” he says eventually._ _

__“The second shot, the one that…” I take a breath. “The one after Fojtik went down. It came from an U.N.C.L.E. special.”_ _

__Neither of us speaks, although the map under Illya’s hand crackles from time to time as his grip tightens sporadically. I check him out of the corner of my eye, but his face is a mask, a slight tic at the corner of his left eye the only indicator of his inner turmoil. He’s holding it together. I just hope he can handle this and the pain until we’re clear into Austria._ _

__

__About a mile from the border crossing I stop the car and reach into the back seat for Illya’s topcoat. Not too incongruous for August, and it will cover the wreck of his jacket. Between us we manage to manoeuvre him into it, and settle him against the door. He’s pale and shaky when we’re done. I stroke his face once._ _

__“Try to look as though you're napping. I’ll pretend to wake you, if it’s necessary.”_ _

__He nods and gives my hand a quick squeeze._ _

__The checkpoint is quieter than when we came through before. No dogs to be seen, just a couple of bored-looking young Czechs in dusty uniforms. There are six vehicles in the holding area: a couple of agricultural vehicles, a motorcycle, two more cars and us. We’re between the second farm truck and the motorcycle with the two cars behind us. Movement is unhurried._ _

__Illya’s scanning around through half-lidded eyes whilst giving every impression of snoring softly. As the barrier is raised and the leading farm truck lumbers across the border zone, I check the rearview mirror. Behind us, maybe a mile in the distance, there’s a ball of dust moving along the road. It’s headed our way. I must have caught my breath involuntarily because Illya shoots me a worried look. I pat his leg in reassurance and wind down the window as one of the guards moves towards us, lighting a cigarette. His colleague waves the second truck through then yawns and stretches._ _

___“Doklady.”_ _ _

__I hand him our papers through the window, trying to look as bored as he. In the mirror, the dust cloud is gaining. It takes me a moment to realise that the guard is squinting at the document and speaking._ _

___“Neumím číst tento. Kdy jste přijel v Československu?”_ _ _

__Illya gives every impression of snorting awake from a deep sleep._ _

___“Cože? Už jsme tam už?”_ He blinks at the guard, who asks us again when we arrived in Czechoslovakia. He and Illya have a lengthy conversation in Czech, increasingly punctuated by snorts of laughter. I hear the word _‘Rusové’_ a couple of times and then our papers are in my hand again and he’s waving us towards the barrier, just as the cloud in the mirror arrives. _ _

__And resolves itself into a dusty, black Tatra._ _

__I glance across at Illya. His weapon is already in his lap, hidden by the fold of his coat. Ahead the barrier is rising and there’s an almost irresistible temptation to gun the engine to get us to the other side. Behind us the arrival of the Tatra has clearly had an effect. Its occupants are out of the car, shouting and gesticulating at the guard with the cigarette. With half an eye on the tableau, the one holding the barrier waves us through impatiently and lowers it behind us, before unslinging his weapon and strolling to join his colleague._ _

__As we move out of the zone and into Austria I sigh heavily. Illya’s staring behind us at the dwindling image on the Czech side. He spits a vile Russian curse and I glance in the mirror. What I see makes me catch my breath all over again._ _

__“Gerald Strothers,” Illya snaps out._ _

__Harry’s second-in-command in Berlin._ _

__

__We’ve elected to return to Vienna, although to a different hotel. The local doctor has just left after tending to Illya’s shoulder. He’s left antibiotics and painkillers and instructions to avoid all alcohol. My partner’s sitting at the table, half way down his third shot of Vodka and is looking thunderous. Not his best look, but it matches my own mood. I cross to him and knead his neck gently. After a while he sighs and covers my right hand with his._ _

__“I could have got the name.”_ _

__“Yeah? When? When you were in his bugged office? Or coming down the bugged staircase? Or, maybe as he fell dying right outside the building.”_ _

__He pulls his hand away and the easing tension in his neck is back full force._ _

__“You think he was going to trust you after five minutes’ acquaintance, in the heart of his enemies’ jurisdiction?_ _

__My partner shrugs and then winces at the movement. “Waverly wasn’t happy.”_ _

__“Of course he wasn’t happy. But it’s not your fault. The whole of the Berlin Office has just blown up in his face. It’ll take years to unpick the mess. At least we know who our traitors are. You have to feel for the Brits.”_ _

__He drains his vodka and picks up the bottle to pour again. I lay my hand over his, lowering the bottle back to the table._ _

__“Come to bed,” I say._ _

__He looks at the bottle once, but stands and lets me guide him over to the bed. I’ve made a nest of pillows on the mattress to support him and he kicks off his shoes and eases himself down. I help him settle on his side and then kick off my own shoes and lie down opposite him. He reaches for me, hooking a foot behind my hip, and I close the gap until I can plant soft kisses on his face._ _

__“I’m not in very good condition,” he murmurs, as I kiss his eyelids._ _

__I reach for his fly. “I wasn’t planning on asking you for a gymnastic routine. I’ll do all the work.” I stroke his length once, twice, then slide down the bed and engulf him in my mouth._ _

__He gasps, and chokes out, “That’ll make a change.”_ _

__I hum a laugh around him, and he moans. In Russian. And this is good, so good, to have him relaxed and willing and losing his English and… _alive,_ under me, and when I suck him to completion, he goes rigid for a second and then comes, shuddering, with a whisper of “Napoleon…”_ _

__

__I watch him as he sleeps, his face relaxed for the first time since he was shot. Painkillers and vodka. And the sex, of course. Or… the lovemaking. I’m pretty sure now of the difference and it’s time I told him. Past time, really. But this time I need to do it when he’s awake._ _

__Half an hour later he stirs and opens his eyes. I smile at him._ _

__“I have something to tell you,” I say._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Spring 1968 saw radical changes to the regime in Czechoslovakia as Alexander Dubcek's liberal reforms were implemented. The paranoia of Brezhnev and the rest of the Soviet bloc drove the suppression of the 'Prague Spring' after barely three months. Wiki, as ever, has all the detail you might want, although not the fact that Robert Vaughn was caught up in it with Ben Gazzara whilst filming _The Bridge at Remagen_ there.
> 
> Kronette's great prompts were: things not going to plan; present exchange; fire pit/fireplace.


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